Brave Hearts

by Carolyn Hart

  “May I speak to Jack Maguire?”

  “He’s at HQ. Sorry, gotta go.” She was left holding a dead line.

  So Jack was back with INS.

  Catharine stood uncertainly in the middle of the living room. Had she remembered everything? Their passports, of course. Sunburn cream. Mosquito oil. Soap. Aspirin. Toothbrushes and toothpowder. She wondered suddenly if this were how the refugees had felt when they fled Paris ahead of the invading Nazis. Catharine knew what it was to be bombed, but this was her first time to be a refugee.

  Refugee to where?

  The question turned coolly in her mind as she wrote a note to Manuel and the other servants. She didn’t know what to say, what advice to give. Finally, she left them two months’ salary and wished them Godspeed.

  Refugee to where? Hawaii was five thousand miles away. Australia was fifteen hundred miles distant.

  The doorman flagged a cab, and the cabbie talked in sibilant, broken English all the way out Dewey Boulevard. Catharine answered occasionally, but she was looking at the familiar wide sweep of street and the brilliant gleam of the bay and seeing it all with new eyes. It looked so ordinary, familiar, and impervious to change, but she knew so terribly well that buildings which had survived for hundreds of years collapsed in smoldering heaps in London.

  The cabbie slowed and started to turn into the big circle drive that curved in front of the Residence, but an MP waved him to a halt and looked grimly inside.

  Catharine leaned forward. “I’m Mrs. Cavanaugh. My husband is the special envoy. He told me to come.”

  The MP nodded. “You’ll have to get out here, ma’am. The drive’s closed to traffic. Leave your bags over there. I’ll have them sent up in a while.”

  Catharine nodded and paid the cabbie. She started up the curving drive. Sweat beaded her face, began to slip down her back. The hard glare of the sunlight, even this early in the morning, reflected off the harsh whiteness of the Residence. A plain black iron grille fence separated the grounds from Dewey Boulevard. Past the sea wall, she could see the deep blue of Manila Bay.

  At the entrance to the Residence, MPs stood on either side of the door, checking identification. Once inside, Catharine hesitated. It was like being plunged into a nightmare. The mass of people crowded into the lobby reflected fear, horror, and shock. There had been so much talk of war, but no one actually believed war would come. Men and women, some of them holding fretful children by the hand, were lined up three abreast in front of an improvised counter, clamoring to know if ships could carry them away. Catharine looked closer and recognized piles of gas masks on the counter.

  “Catharine.”

  The voice sounded pleasantly over the din of the crowd. Catharine turned and smiled at Amea Willoughby.

  They struggled through the frantic crowd to meet.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come,” Amea cried.

  Catharine reached out and squeezed Amea’s hand, then bent close to ask softly, “Have you heard any news?”

  Amea’s voice dropped, too. “The news is very bad. The Japanese struck on Sunday morning when almost all the ships were in port.”

  “Sunday morning,” Catharine repeated blankly. But the attack had been only a few hours ago and this was Monday.

  “Hawaii’s over the International Dateline,” Amea reminded her. “It’s Sunday there, Sunday, December 7. The bombing started just before eight in the morning there, about 2:00 A.M. Monday our time. Apparently, the casualties are very heavy.” She bit her lip, then said quickly, “Have you had your inoculations yet?”

  Catharine shook her head. “No, I just got here.”

  Amea led her to the line for anti-tetanus shots. Catharine took her place at the end. As the line inched forward, she watched the intense but controlled activity. There were guards everywhere. MPs bustled about, taping and covering the exposed windows and placing sandbags in the rounded archways of the patio.

  After her shot, she felt rather dizzy, but she dutifully stood in another line for her gas mask and one for Spencer. Finally, she climbed the curving stairway to the third floor and the ballroom. She said hello to other wives she knew, took a place at one of the trestle tables, and began to roll bandages.

  They were eating lunch when word came that the Japanese were bombing Clark Field and Fort Stotsenburg. They could hear the heavy sound of the bombs. Catharine knew about bombings. She knew about the mindless visitation of death, the fortuity.

  Where was Jack? Oh, God, was he safe?

  Every imaginable kind of vehicle moved at a snail’s pace toward Manila, away from the twin columns of thick smoke that hung like sooty black plumes against the bright enamel-blue sky over Clark Field. Filipino families walked behind laden carabao, all their possessions balanced atop the buffalo or packed on their own backs. Buses, two-wheeled carts, Ford coupes, and a Packard limousine jolted forward, then stopped, jolted forward, then stopped, time after time.

  Jack guided the half-horsepower motorcycle onto the graveled shoulder past stalled cars, then back to the narrow two-lane blacktop. The nearer he got to Clark Field, the worse it looked—huge, hot columns of fire and smoke twisting hundreds of feet into the air. He narrowed his eyes and tried to make out the silhouette of the field against the flat Luzon plain, but there were no familiar landmarks. Waist-high, thick-stalked stands of cogon grass blazed like burning straw around the perimeter of the field. Oil and gas supplies burned with an angry orange-red flame. No building was untouched. Jack leaned the motorcycle against a chain link fence and stared in disbelief at what had been only hours before a major military airfield. The roar and crackle of the ignited grasses surrounding the field underscored the sense of desolation and devastation.

  Amid the burning fury of the fires, men worked to free those still alive. The dead bodies were in rows not far from the bombed mess hall. A bus loaded with wounded set off for Manila. Blood seeped from the bus, spattering the road.

  Grim-faced, Jack began his search for a ranking officer. How many casualties were there? Was the USAFFE air arm destroyed? If it was, how the hell had it happened? How had the Japanese found the major portion of the Far East air fleet on the ground hours after the war began? On the ground and parked wing tip to wing tip, because that was clear from the jumbled wreckage. How in the hell?

  Jack leaned against Logan’s desk. He was exhausted, but determined. His eyes glinted with anger.

  “Goddamn it, that’s what happened! A complete surprise. A blow out. A goddamn massacre.”

  Logan tilted back in his swivel chair. “I don’t doubt you, Jack, but we’ll never get the story past the censors.” He looked down at the yellow sheets Jack had just handed him. There was more than a newsman’s interest in his voice. His voice was thin with shock. “Is it really that bad?”

  “It’s bloody awful. They’ve got maybe four planes left, and however many B-17s they’d sent to Mindanao earlier.”

  “How the hell?” Logan asked.

  “They’d been up since they heard about Pearl, but they came down to refuel. That’s when the Japs attacked. Maybe three P-40s took off. Five more tried, but it was like ducks in a gallery. Whoosh.”

  Logan picked up a cigar, carefully cut off the end, lit it, and inhaled deeply. Then he looked up at Jack. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. I know.” Without airpower, the islands would fall.

  There was a weary silence for a long moment. Logan smoked some more, then, his voice a little high, said, “Why don’t you check out civilian morale tomorrow and see what you can pick up around the banks? There was a run today.”

  Jack nodded, then turned and walked out into the night. Back in his apartment, he didn’t even take time to wash the smoke stains from his face or to get a drink for his parched throat. He dialed Catharine’s number. The phone rang and rang.

  No answer.

  He yanked up the phone directory and found the number of the U.S. Residence.

  It took a long time to get an answe
r. He asked for Catharine and, again, waited for a long time. Finally, a distant voice said, “I’m sorry, but we are unable to connect you with Mrs. Cavanaugh. May we take a message?”

  “Tell her Jack Maguire called. Tell her to call me at noon tomorrow at my apartment.”

  “Jesus, it’s hot,” a man muttered in the thick darkness.

  Catharine lay quietly on her mattress and wondered how many others bedded down for the night on the patio were awake and miserable. Probably almost everyone out there. Mattresses were arranged in groups of five, then enclosed by three-foot-high scaffolding draped with mosquito nets. The thick netting blocked any breeze, though it would have taken a gale to cool the sweltering temperature. She lay in pools of sweat, but it was better to be hot than to be exposed to the malarial mosquitos. She was hot and painfully thirsty, but the fear which had permeated her day was gone—she had her message from Jack. Somehow, she was going to see him tomorrow.

  As she thought of Jack, her body relaxed, and she felt the beginnings of a smile. Unexpectedly, sleep washed over her.

  The air raid siren woke her. Her heart thudded almost in concert with the hollow thump of exploding bombs. She struggled up on her elbow and listened and knew the bombing wasn’t too far away. People began to struggle out from beneath the netting and to call out excitedly.

  “The bomb shelter’s in the cellar,” someone shouted.

  Catharine stayed where she was because the bombs weren’t coming nearer, but her feeling of ease and happiness was gone. Once again, she tasted the metallic edge of fear. Where was Jack? Where was he now?

  The raid continued almost until dawn. Catharine got up as it ended, rolled her mattress up, and went inside to freshen up.

  Amea hurried up to her. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you come down to the shelter?”

  Catharine shook her head. “It wasn’t that near.”

  “I suppose you can tell, after London.”

  Catharine said drily, “You’ll be an expert soon enough.”

  After breakfast, the women gathered in the third-floor ballroom. This morning they worked swiftly and grimly rolling bandages. Mrs. Sayre made it clear they were badly needed.

  “They’ve opened another hospital at the jai alai courts,” Amea said. “There have been so many casualties.”

  Jack rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the Royal and began to type, his blunt fingers jabbing at the stiff keys. Occasionally, he paused and took a drag from the cigarette. It was hard to figure what the censors would let through. He couldn’t describe the almost complete destruction of the air arm, but they couldn’t squash the news that Clark and Iba had been bombed. He finished the wrap-up on casualties and an interview with a doctor at the jai alai courts, now converted to a military hospital. Then he glanced down at his watch. He’d called in and told Logan he would be writing at his apartment this morning, that he’d come into the office later in the day with a pile of copy. He shook his head and started another story, but while he wrote and the sentences crackled into life, he was thinking of Catharine. Was she frightened? Of course, she was. She knew what war was like. She’d lived through the Blitz. Now, she might have to face worse. He looked absently at the window, obscured by a driving rain. They should be grateful for the rain. At least the Nips wouldn’t bomb right now. But it was time for the dry season. When the rain stopped, the bombers would return, and ultimately Japanese troops would come. If only he’d been able to convince Catharine to leave last week.

  He was in the middle of a sentence when he heard the light knock at the door. He shoved back his chair so quickly it tipped over. He reached the door in two strides, jerked it open, and pleasure flooded through him. He reached out and pulled her into his arms despite her wet raincoat. She clung to him as he closed the door.

  “It’s all right.” He said it over and over again until she stopped trembling, looked up at him, and managed a smile.

  “I know. I’m a fool,” she said huskily. “I make it worse than it is. Every time I hear a bomb drop, I’m afraid for you.”

  His hand gently touched her cheek. “Hey, that’s a waste of good emotion. You know about bad pennies.”

  She looked up at him, her violet eyes dark with sadness. “You aren’t a bad penny.”

  “Sure I am. But the point is, the Irish never lose. You know why?”

  She began to smile. “Why?”

  “Because we’re too handsome and wonderful. So don’t worry about me, Catharine. I’m going to survive this war—and so are you.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said slowly, quietly. “I have a feeling . . .”

  He broke in sharply. “Don’t have feelings like that. It’s bad luck.”

  She looked at him steadily. “I’ve not had much good luck, Jack, and I’ve certainly never brought luck to anyone else. Now it’s your turn. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be trapped here. You’d be in England. You’d be safe.” Her eyes were enormous now, enormous circles of pain and suffering.

  “Stop it, Catharine,” he said harshly. “You carry around too much guilt and you aren’t going to add me to your burden. I came because you were here, but the Japs would never keep me away. I haven’t spent my life playing safe. I do what I want to do, and I want you more than anything else in the world, and I always will.”

  “I’ve put you in danger.”

  He gripped her shoulders and shook her. “Listen to me. I don’t give a damn about safety. I never have. I never will. If it weren’t for you, I’d be in the middle of the Western Desert right now, and the fighting’s bloody awful there.”

  Catharine licked her lips. “This may be worse than the Western Desert.”

  “Yeah, it may be, but you know what will make it worth any pain, any price, any risk?”

  She waited.

  “You,” he said softly.

  “Jack, oh, Jack, I do love you so.”

  They moved together, their lips touched, they tasted each other, and they were warm and alive and afire.

  The phone rang.

  Catharine started to pull away, but his arms tightened around her. “Forget it.” His lips moved across her cheek, her temple, nuzzled her hair. Then he turned her toward the bedroom and closed the door against the continuing peal of the telephone.

  When they were undressed and lying together, Jack loved her slowly, so slowly, his lips soft against her skin, his hands stroking, searching, caressing. There was no world but the sensual seeking between them. Nothing else existed or mattered. They were perfect and complete in themselves, and soon, like sparks crackling deep within an intense fire, their passion exploded in a tumultuous, exquisite union.

  It didn’t rain Wednesday, and the Japanese onslaught began. As Catharine and Amea rolled bandages, they listened to the radio announcer, whose voice crackled with strain.

  “. . . the air is full of planes, full of them. Bombers . . . fighters . . . They are attacking Cavite . . . a Japanese convoy, hundreds of ships, has been sighted near Aparri.”

  New bulletins carried increasingly worse news, and they could hear the faraway sound of exploding bombs. The bombing was over by one o’clock. When they went outside and stood on the lawn, they saw to the south twisting, bulbous clouds of oily black smoke marking the destruction of the immense naval yard.

  “It’s dreadful,” Amea said. “Dreadful.”

  Catharine nodded, but she didn’t answer because she knew this was only the beginning.

  In the darkened garden, Spencer and Peggy clung to each other.

  “If I’d left you in London, you’d be safe.” He said it softly against her hair.

  “Don’t, Spencer. You didn’t know. And you tried to make me go home.”

  “But not in time.”

  She lifted her face to his. “Let’s love each other—for whatever time remains.”

  The bombers came every day at noon. Two Japanese convoys were sighted on December 22. In the south, Japanese troops landed at Lamon Bay. The race was on from south and no
rth to reach Manila.

  Catharine stood in line in the lobby of the U.S. Residence, waiting for another chance to use the single telephone allotted for private calls. She had been there since shortly after breakfast. Each time she reached the phone, she dialed the INS office, then Jack’s apartment. It was almost five o’clock when she finally caught him.

  The connection was very bad.

  “What, Jack? What did you say?”

  “. . . into effect . . . WP03 . . . the troops are . . . out . . .”

  Catharine understood. The diplomats had talked grimly of it all day. MacArthur had ordered all the Allied forces to withdraw from the main part of the island onto the peninsula of Bataan.

  The line cracked again and his voice came clearly.

  “I’m going south tonight to cover the retreat up through Manila.”

  He was going to the fighting.

  “When will you be back?”

  “I don’t . . .” Static drowned him out. He raised his voice. “Catharine . . .”

  “Will you be at your apartment this evening? I’ll come . . .”

  “No, don’t try it. It’s too dangerous. It would be dark before you started back.”

  She knew he was right. It was madness these last days to be out in Manila after dark. Trigger-happy militia shot first and asked questions later.

  The marine at the desk interrupted reluctantly. “Ma’am, your time is up.”

  The receiver crackled with static. Catharine called out, “Please, please, take care of yourself . . .”

  The day before Christmas dawned bright, clear, and hot. A good day for bombing, Catharine thought. Would Jack be back in Manila? She would call. If he were, then somehow she was going to see him. She hurried downstairs to breakfast and was almost finished when she saw Spencer standing in the doorway to the dining room. When he came toward her, she realized with a shock that he looked ill, his face drained and white. She had scarcely seen him since Pearl Harbor. He was at the Residence, of course, but he worked from early morning to late at night on the gold lists. As he came nearer, she knew he was working far too hard. And what difference, for God’s sake, could those interminable lists of gold make now? There were no ships leaving Manila. Every ship that could get underway left the week after war began. Many of them never cleared Manila Bay, victims of Jap bombers, and dozens of listing hulks still burned. Why did Spencer continue to work so hard? It was foolish, idiotic of him. Then she felt ashamed of herself. Spencer was just doing his job, trying to do what he thought was right. But inside, a clear, cool voice whispered, Oh, yes, Spencer always does what’s right and particularly when he is observed. He was Spencer, trying to succeed and impress, even when his world teetered on the edge of extinction.